


Try for change

by orphan_account



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Also frisk has a bit of a Dissasociative Personality Disorder going on, Currently just a oneshot but i can always make it a multi chapter fic, Dpd, I was feeling inspired, Oneshot, Reader Is Frisk, That or bipolar idk both work I guess, definitely depression, like this is basically just writing about suicide, mature audiences for suicide mention, really depends if people are willing to read it thou, sorry - Freeform, written in second person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 11:26:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6282748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My depiction of how Frisk came to the Underground, and what it was that drove them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Try for change

Sometimes you wondered. Nothing all that special. You just wondered. Wondered what it would have been like to grow up with two parents. Wondered what your father would have looked like. Whether or not he knows you exist. Whether or not he still exists. Wondered for hours; if there was a better life waiting for you. It's much more patient than you are.

Out of all these things, one thing you found your mind routinely drift to was what it would possibly be like to have a mother that really, truly cared about you. Your mother is loopy. You're tired of her. She seems to treat herself like a princess. She smiles too much. Too happy, too nice. Far too nice. What a joke. You think you've heard her talk to herself. Or maybe she was talking to you. Maybe you're the one who's loopy. When you come to think of it, it's probably both. Doesn't she care about you though, at least a little bit? Surely she cares. She says she does, doesn't she? Yeah. She does a that a lot.  
You scoff. Pathetic. Hate it when she does. Terrible liar. Doesn't she know that you aren't delusional? That you aren't naive?

Maybe you were. You were just a kid. You were 16. You look 13.  
You nearly laughed, but you didn't end up opening your mouth so instead you just cracked a small smile.

Your friends often teased you about looking so young. They weren't being mean to you, but still, every time you would fire back with _"when we're 82 you'll look at me and suddenly it won't be nearly such a bad thing anymore."_  
Of course, you always left out the part that you knew you'd never even come slightly close to that age.

You had some interesting friendships. Sometimes you even felt like you mattered to them.  
You inhale and take a moment.

Isn't life a blessing? You hummed. And what a blessing it is. To truly feel, to breathe and speak, to see and think. To make decisions and statements; to have a voice and a mind. To have a heartbeat.  
Just how lucky are we, to have life? Something so pure and complex. So complicated, but so simple... So fragile and insignificant. So boring. It's a life. It's just a life. 

And it's wrong — you know it's wrong — to feel this way, but you do. You never asked to be like this. But you are, and you don't mind. You don't care.  
Your mind is like tangled gorse. You want to be bad, you want to bring pain; surely you do. You know you do because when you say that you smile and when you think that you hum. You're a bad person, right? Of course. You're terrible, you shouldn't be here. You know that; it's obvious. The rest of the world seems so oblivious. In one ear and our the other.

  
And yet sometimes, you say these things, and think those thoughts and you feel your shoulders sag, like you've been abruptly snapped out of a reverie. In some ways you have.

You want to cry because in those moments you realise how caged you are, and you truly want to be free. And it's in those moments you say, _no. I don't want to hurt anyone._  
You hate yourself. Rightfully so.  
Though somehow it doesn't matter. It never matters because in a few seconds you're back to normal again, and you laugh at yourself with a tone that begs _"pathetic."_  
You try so hard to block those thoughts. You really hate them. You don't want to be nice, you don't need to be. It's bad, you're bad; _bad, bad, bad._

  
Being nice just gets you hurt. So why? Why would you?  
Being nice and caring makes you vulnerable and fragile to getting hit. So you distance yourself. You tell yourself you don't care. You make yourself _want_ pain, _desire_  pain. Want others to feel overwhelmed with _pain._  You want humanity to just, for once, learn its goddamn lesson. You want people to get what they deserve.

you tell yourself you don't care.

And you don't.

 

That much, you know.

 

* * *

 

 

It's 201X. Midnight. You're waiting for your mom to go to sleep. You'll know when she does because you'll hear the click of her door as she closes it for night. Cold moonlight highlights your face and washes your carpet in white. You hold your breath and impatiently pause in dead silence.  
Click.  
Tensions relax slightly. Slowly you wait a minute, slightly nodding your head like you're listening to something important.  
That's long enough. Quickly, you get up and step on silent feet with an entire childhood of practice and perfection behind each small touch to the floor. Padding over to your drawer you pull out an oversized, blue striped sweater. As you put it on you look at yourself in the mirror. Come to think of it, you actually quite like it. Suits your short brown hair.

Opening a different drawer you take a pair of black leggings. You're so ready for this. You'll be happy. You've waited long enough already. It has taken you months to get courage and physically prepare your life and the things around you for this (You hated admitting you had to gain courage). You seriously doubt your room has ever been cleaner.  
You rummage through your bedside drawer and snatch out a sticky note in which you quickly scrawl down the words "game over" on before placing it on your bed and turning away on your heel. Just as you are about to make your way out of your room a tiny sparkle of red and white from the corner of your eye catches your attention. You turn to see your red heart-shaped locket sitting on your bedside table. Blinking, you pause for a moment in consideration. Shrug. _Sure, why not. It'll be ironic._ You bitterly snort at your comment and go to clip the charm around your neck. You hate yourself.

You finally get out of your room, and walk down the hall, extra careful not to wake up your mom and blow your cover. Ignoring the kitchen and the lounge room as you pass by, you head to the front door. You're putting your hand on the door handle before you realise you don't have anything on your feet apart from a pair of white ankle socks. You stop to consider your options before you quietly groan.  
Yeah, you'll probably regret it if you don't put some shoes on. You look around the room for something to wear when your eyes spot something. You quickly rush over and grab a pair of brown boots sitting conveniently across the room and slip them on. You feel a triumphant flare as you go back towards the exit, ready to go. Easy-peasy.

You let out a satisfied huff and, as quietly as you can manage, open the front door. You've never been more grateful that your door doesn't squeak. Stepping out into the crisp air you take a glance up at tall dark trees, barely rustling in the late breeze. The door is closed after you and you carelessly waltz away from your house. This is it. Everything's finally gonna be fixed. You're gonna be free. You're gonna be happy.

You don't feel very happy.

Your chest lurches on its own accord and you feel a painful heartache start to grow. It's forced back down with all the effort you can muster.

Bitter determination.

You feel a fire ignite your blood and singe your bones but a ghost of a heartbeat later and it's gone. Suddenly the world has become extreme and you're on edge. Your senses are as sharp as a hawk's eyes and your emotions are going borderline insane but at the same time, you feel seemingly empty, depressed. You feel nauseous.

Disgusting.

Feet are forced to take steps until you have the courage to do it yourself. Why are you feeling these things? You're going to be free. Aren't you exited? This can all end and you can be happy. You want this more than anything.

Street lights put you in spotlight as you walk down and through the calm neighbourhood. It's cloudy tonight, so you can't see the stars. You feel slightly disappointed and you reflexively wince. No stars on the most important day of your life? ....On the last?

 _Oh well. That's okay._ You weakly and desperately try to reassure yourself. _Everything will be fine. It doesn't even matter._

You're starting to reach the end of the street now — it's a dead end, and beyond it is a beautiful forest of all flora and fauna, and the base of Mount Ebott. That's where you're headed.  
You know every trail and corner on this side of the mountain. You spent plenty of time there, and wasted not a minute exploring when you were young. It is, after all, literally the only exciting thing in this suburb. To an extent.   
You reach the base of Mount Ebott. A shudder racks your body as you breathe in.  
_It's fine, it doesn't matter, it won't matter._  
You're talking to yourself now. You quickly begin your ascent before you start reconsidering your wasted existence and consciousness.

_Crunch_

_Snap_

You long stopped bothering to be quiet. It hardly mattered now that you were well out of sight and earshot of other people. Somewhere behind you an owl screeches while you are trying to weave around the dense foliage. The thick smell of leaf litter is coating the roof of your mouth and intoxicating your senses until for a while, it's all you can think about. You squeeze your eyelids shut and heave in a ragged breath.  
You swallow the bile in your throat and feel your body shake and you know it isn't from the cold. You have to force yourself to keep going now. You're almost there. Determination is burning your heart out. You feel your blood catch fire again for a split second. _What's with that? What is it?_

"I don't want this." The words barely make it out of your mouth in a raspy whisper- and did you even say anything? Something cold bites your face. When did you start crying? You're struggling to climb over a log in your path.  
All you can hear is your corrupted breathing. Cold air is burning your lungs and you feel as though your throat would freeze any minute. Fingers and toes are numb. Your knees are aching. Damn this mountain. You're reaching the summit now, and a few soft snowflakes are starting to aimlessly fall. Your mind is completely ablaze with pain and anger and _determination. Raw determination_ eats at your brain. You hate yourself.

You're close, you're so so close, just a little further and you'll be free.

 

.. 

 

Doesn't that sound nice?

 

You'll be free.

 

You'll go someplace nice, and you'll be so happy. You won't have to fear anymore, you'll be free of the prison which is your body.

You'll be happy. You smile weakly.  
You're tired. You're so tired, all you want is to stop. You want your life turn to dust, and dissolve into the wind. You're exhausted from being alive. From having no motivation. The exhaustion you've felt everyday makes your weak knees and sore throat from the agonising hike seem so insignificant and worthless. And in reality, they probably are. You want to scream and cry out.

 

It's just within your reach now, it's so close, you could just-

You collapse on your side on a small plateau cleared of trees. You're nearly there. If you look up you can just see the ground turning inward towards a gaping black hole in the ground. Tears fall from your eyes and you smile. You're trying to be brave.

"Ha... H-ha..."

Head is throbbing now. Not much longer. You're choking on salty tears.  
A golden glow peeks through your eyelids and you pull your gaze back down to see the sliver of an undying sun rising shyly from the horizon. Your gaze drifts towards the sky. The clouds have cleared.

_That was nice of them..._

Stars.  
The Milky Way.  
It's faint, but it's there. All you see are stars. They're so beautiful, aren't they?

"I-I'm... Gonna... Join you... S-soon," You hoarsely manage to whisper. "I'm coming home." You breathe out so faintly you almost didn't hear it. You wince. "Sorry."

You wheeze and use what little energy you have left to haul yourself onto your weak feet. Your body is fire. Determination. You take three wobbling steps back. _This is supposed to happen. I get that now._

You smile because you think that just maybe, you finally feel happy. And you do. 

Earth is so pretty.

And the last thing you let yourself see was the sunrise and the stars as your body gave in and you felt yourself fall backwards into nothing and everything at the same time.

You would be free. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry I swear I physically can't write long, decent stories. I think this was way better in my head I'm so sorry ughgf
> 
> I'll try and work on my writing I'm sorry
> 
> But not now it's 2am and I can't really think so I'm sorry that might also be contributing to the fact that this is just awful I'm sorrY


End file.
